Read Online Running from the Deity by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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but a minor infraction.
His hand drew away from the communicator and moved to position itself near the needler attached to his belt. While their emotions were presently nonthreatening, he had no way of knowing how those coming this way would react at the sight of him. Nor did he know if they were armed, and if so, with what. Death brought about by primitive devices was no less final than that begat by advanced weaponry. He needed to be prepared for anything. As he had been all his life.
Calling Pip to him, he bade the flying snake curl up in his lap, leaned back with his palms pressing into the cool, slightly moist soil, and waited to see what was about to step through the surrounding vegetation.
CHAPTER
4
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
Storra was tired, bored, and frustrated at the waste of time. She should be home, finishing the fringe work on the magaarje runner. It was a particularly fine piece of work, incorporating both suru and sjal patterns, and it ought to bring a high price in Metrel’s southern marketplace. If she was ever allowed to finish it, that is. She resented every timeclick that took her away from the work. It was beginning to look like this wild wandering of her beloved mate, she reflected dourly, would end up costing her an entire morning.
Ebbanai’s confidence was starting to ebb even though they were still some distance from where the arrival had taken place. Storra’s uncompromising resort to logic and reason was beginning to have an effect on him, wearing down his conviction like gherowd bone beneath a file. Had he truly seen what he claimed to have seen? Or, as she had suggested, had he taken a fall after all, and hit his head, and dreamed everything but the falling and the head-hitting?
No. He rose a little higher, lifting his upper torso another fold out of the pelvic buttress. He had not been dazed, or dreaming. It had all been real, as real as the sand and dirt presently passing beneath his four sandal-shod foot-pads. What he
did
fear was that the machine he had seen had swallowed up its creatures and left during the night. If that was the case, and no proof of its ever having been on the beach had been left behind, he would never hear the end of it. For the rest of his life, Storra would drag it out in the middle of every argument and use it against him.
The machine-dune had to still be there. It
had
to be. He pushed through a denser clump of tall cherkka—and then it no longer mattered whether the gigantic apparition remained on the beach or not.
Because its occupant was not with it. It was here, right in front of them.
Alongside him, he heard Storra react, her startled inhalation a fusion of whistle and gasp. Every one of her skin flaps lifted and extended to its maximum, giving her the temporary appearance of a threatened horwath raising its defensive spines. Her eyes widened such an extent that they threatened to sprain the encircling muscles. All her anger, annoyance, and uncertainty evaporated in the space of a second.
As for the creature, neither it nor the smaller, winged being coiled about its upper arms made any effort to stand in response to their arrival. Nor did either of the alien beings react sharply. Their calm in the face of the confrontation almost suggested that the arrival of Ebbanai and his mate had been anticipated.
Nearly as shocking to Storra as their appearance, and certainly as much to Ebbanai, were the mouth-noises the alien spoke. These were directed not at them, but toward a small device the creature took from a belt and held up to its enormously wide, flattened mouth. Alien noises went in, but comprehensible Dwarrani came out.
“My name is Flinx. I am an intelligent being like yourselves.” A single hand at the end of a single forearm pointed skyward, and a stunned Storra could not keep from looking for its missing counterpart. “I come from far away, from a world that circles a star not unlike your own.” The alien arm
His hand drew away from the communicator and moved to position itself near the needler attached to his belt. While their emotions were presently nonthreatening, he had no way of knowing how those coming this way would react at the sight of him. Nor did he know if they were armed, and if so, with what. Death brought about by primitive devices was no less final than that begat by advanced weaponry. He needed to be prepared for anything. As he had been all his life.
Calling Pip to him, he bade the flying snake curl up in his lap, leaned back with his palms pressing into the cool, slightly moist soil, and waited to see what was about to step through the surrounding vegetation.
CHAPTER
4
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
Storra was tired, bored, and frustrated at the waste of time. She should be home, finishing the fringe work on the magaarje runner. It was a particularly fine piece of work, incorporating both suru and sjal patterns, and it ought to bring a high price in Metrel’s southern marketplace. If she was ever allowed to finish it, that is. She resented every timeclick that took her away from the work. It was beginning to look like this wild wandering of her beloved mate, she reflected dourly, would end up costing her an entire morning.
Ebbanai’s confidence was starting to ebb even though they were still some distance from where the arrival had taken place. Storra’s uncompromising resort to logic and reason was beginning to have an effect on him, wearing down his conviction like gherowd bone beneath a file. Had he truly seen what he claimed to have seen? Or, as she had suggested, had he taken a fall after all, and hit his head, and dreamed everything but the falling and the head-hitting?
No. He rose a little higher, lifting his upper torso another fold out of the pelvic buttress. He had not been dazed, or dreaming. It had all been real, as real as the sand and dirt presently passing beneath his four sandal-shod foot-pads. What he
did
fear was that the machine he had seen had swallowed up its creatures and left during the night. If that was the case, and no proof of its ever having been on the beach had been left behind, he would never hear the end of it. For the rest of his life, Storra would drag it out in the middle of every argument and use it against him.
The machine-dune had to still be there. It
had
to be. He pushed through a denser clump of tall cherkka—and then it no longer mattered whether the gigantic apparition remained on the beach or not.
Because its occupant was not with it. It was here, right in front of them.
Alongside him, he heard Storra react, her startled inhalation a fusion of whistle and gasp. Every one of her skin flaps lifted and extended to its maximum, giving her the temporary appearance of a threatened horwath raising its defensive spines. Her eyes widened such an extent that they threatened to sprain the encircling muscles. All her anger, annoyance, and uncertainty evaporated in the space of a second.
As for the creature, neither it nor the smaller, winged being coiled about its upper arms made any effort to stand in response to their arrival. Nor did either of the alien beings react sharply. Their calm in the face of the confrontation almost suggested that the arrival of Ebbanai and his mate had been anticipated.
Nearly as shocking to Storra as their appearance, and certainly as much to Ebbanai, were the mouth-noises the alien spoke. These were directed not at them, but toward a small device the creature took from a belt and held up to its enormously wide, flattened mouth. Alien noises went in, but comprehensible Dwarrani came out.
“My name is Flinx. I am an intelligent being like yourselves.” A single hand at the end of a single forearm pointed skyward, and a stunned Storra could not keep from looking for its missing counterpart. “I come from far away, from a world that circles a star not unlike your own.” The alien arm
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